(no subject)
I had two hospital calls back to back a few weeks ago, and they were dramatically different in how the staff handled the cases, even though the calls were less than 24 hours apart.
Before I get into it, it might help to get some context on why I say absolutely nothing to shitty people being shitty: I try really hard to keep a good working relationship with everyone I meet while on "duty", because I'm the lead person here and often the only one doing this job, so it's really fucking important that people and staff feel okay to call me. I try to make sure there's never anything in the way of that, like me being angry or bitchy at them this one time. That may sound extreme, but you never know if a nurse you meet one night is going to be the kind of person that holds totally unnecessary, long grudges. I've known some people like that, and they are absolutely impossible people to be around; so I try to be very careful and very professional even though the majority of people I meet are not like that and are totally decent.
That said, there are some nights where this is a lot harder than I expect it to be because sometimes the staff I meet are really fucking horrible. I have met some seriously rude, insensitive and unkind people while doing this job and it really horrifies me every single time it happens.
The first call of the two was for a very tiny 15-17 week old, and he was beautiful and special. He was not the smallest baby I've ever held, but he was close. Sometimes that makes getting pictures challenging, and so the organization frowns upon answering calls that are for babies born less than 26 weeks. The official policy is not to go at all but the actual contract wording is a more open-ended 'up to the photographer' thing, so I've answered quite a few calls for babes considerably smaller than the cut-off. Though, I attend with a warning that I'll do everything I can to get whatever I can, but can't promise images that look like what's on the site.
Generally the kinds of parents who reach out to this organization are the ones who felt like I did when I lost Jericho: who want to gather up anything and everything they can that has even the most remote connection to this little soul, and keep it close to their hearts forever. It is important to treat that need with the care and respect it deserves, so I try really hard to get the smallest, tiniest details because it's those that will fade the fastest.
As I took pictures I realized he had not had any prints taken, so I put a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door of the room I was in and came up to the desk to ask if they had any ink papers I could use to ensure the parents get something. It's a long shot since the baby is so small, but I figure if I can get even a partial it's better than nothing, right? The nurse told me they "don't do that" anymore for loss parents. Stunned, I asked why not, and she explained, "Well many of those babies aren't even normal. They might even have like only three toes or something, and you don't want a print of something weird like that". She said it with such distain, and yet so casually, as she walked through the NICU full of parents. I just… my brain. It was spinning.
Jericho's condition sometimes affects the way body parts develop due to restricted nutrient flow through the cord, and one of his feet was moderately clubbed and had only 3 "properly" formed toes. We got the same excuse about why no one tried to take a proper print past the first shitty, smudged try. Don't bother, his foot isn't normal anyway.
That's my son. That's my baby. I don't fucking care if two of his toes aren't perfectly normal size or shape - that's my fucking dead child that I will never get to see or hold or kiss again and all I want is just a goddamn print of his feet. No matter what they look like. Because he's my fucking baby.
So shit like that? Hard not to feel furious that someone could make such disgusting comments about a beloved baby that passed away just mere hours before. That baby is cherished and wanted: it does not matter how big they are, or if they had an abnormality, or if they were born still or alive… that parent wants to keep everything they can and the least you can do is offer.
Whenever I try to talk about this kind of encounter with people, or vent online somewhere, I hear the same excuse every single time: "It's a hard job, so you have to disconnect yourself", and I've spent years being sympathetic to that, but at this point I really don't buy it. Don't get me wrong, I understand the job is incredibly hard: the nursing staff often works harder than the doctors do for less recognition and far less pay, they're tired and they do seriously shitty work sometimes. I appreciate and love them for all of that. I supported the nursing strike with all my heart, and I think they deserve more than they get.
But-
- what I do not accept?… is treating grieving parents, and by extension (and sometimes directly) their babies like absolute shit and blaming it on 'being tired'. The problem with that excuse is that your horrible comments to someone on "a bad day" will be with you for 5 minutes, and them for the rest of their lives. How you treat them in those few minutes, and what comes out of your mouth, may impact their ability to reach their grief and put a huge wrench in their emotional and psychological recovery from what was already a horribly traumatic event before you even walked in. This is a core part of your job: dealing with patients and helping them cope. THAT IS LITERALLY WHAT YOU SIGNED UP FOR. It's like getting a job at an information desk and then being angry with people who ask you questions: you fucking knew what this job entailed, why the hell are you punishing people for needing you to do it properly?!
The night Jericho died I had nurses who treated me like I wasn't even there, talked over me about their television shows, stripped me naked in front of my friends and family without permission or warning, and hand-waved the pain I felt from their manhandling; and that all stuck with me in horrible ways. I was already disconnected and terrified by my experience. I felt like I was becoming part of the machines around me and that I would never find my way back to reality. I felt like I'd broken into pieces and could never be put back together. Being treated like a thing instead of a person did nothing but feed into that despair and loneliness.
Similarly, the deeply heartfelt actions and words of the staff who visited me the following days allowed me to really cry for the first time. Through their kindness I was able to touch a small piece of my grief in a safe and supported way… and feel okay about it. Those seemingly small acts of care and validation from strangers gave me the ability to catch my breath, just for a moment, and realize there were ways to try and work through this (eventually leading to me writing it out in paper journals that I would transfer to my blog after my release - something that helped me get through the first months without losing my mind).
Those few moments you spend with those parents matter far more then you can comprehend. If you can't hold it together long enough to treat a grieving parent and their baby with respect, get help from a coworker, or go find a few minutes alone to meditate on centring yourself before you enter the room. You have to - have to - leave your bullshit at the door. Somebody's life may depend on it.
So nowadays when I see staff saying things like "it needs to go back in the freezer" right in front of the parents, or making 'jokes' to me about how their baby is going to be thrown in the trash - THE FUCKING TRASH - it's really hard not to feel personally insulted. And even harder not to scream and shout at them about it.
This is somebody's life falling apart that you are talking about; someone's shattered hopes and dreams and the total loss of a future that you may literally be holding in your hands. Can you at the very least try and hold the smallest amount of respect for that? For like ten fucking seconds? Sometimes I really just want to shove them out the door and scream, "Do that on your own fucking time, you heartless sack of shit".
But I don't.
Instead I smile politely. And I thank them for their time, I find a quiet place to do my job, and I wait until I'm home to vent.
And it's really not hard to show compassion to someone. It isn't. Even if you haven't personally experienced that kind of loss, you can empathize with what people are going through, and you can be gentle and respectful. When I do my job, I talk to the babies - whether I'm alone or with the whole family there - and I tell them that they are important, that they are loved and beautiful. I apologize if I move them into a position that looks uncomfortable. I try to keep their faces clear of blankets or pillows. I hold them carefully and never let their little bodies hang or drop. I brush back little locs of hair off their foreheads. I tell them they are wonderful little people that I am glad to have met. And I mean every single word, every single time. Because they are people, not things, and their bodies deserve to be touched with the utmost care and respect. You wouldn't piss on someone's grave, and neither should you manhandle a baby's body.
I try keep a close eye on the mood of the room and gauge my behaviour based on that. If the parents don't look like they're ok with me talking, I stop and do it in my head. If they look uncomfortable, I cut my visit very short. If they look scared and alone, I let them know they aren't, and I've been there too. Sometimes I stay for an hour and a half cuddling a baby with a mom and dad, just talking it out, if that's what they need. Sometimes I'm in and out in 15 minutes and barely say a word. I've given many families my personal phone number and told them to PLEASE call me at 3am if they feel hopeless. Hell, even Curtis has offered himself to other dads if they need to talk about how another grieving father handled (and in some cases, did not handle) their pain and how it affects them differently. So far no one has awakened me at night, but many have called me during the day or emailed when they needed to talk.
That isn't part of the job and we're not supposed to do that, but I can't imagine walking away from a mama who asks, "Did you lose someone too? How did you get through?" with that terrified look in her eyes. Because I know what that feels like, I know that hopelessness and absolute terror, I know that vulnerability and I know how easily it can be abused and exploited by uncaring staff, family or random assholes on the internet who accuse you of 'milking it' if you dare feel sad longer than the prescribed amount of time they think you should. I can't just turn my back on that and make some shitty comment about how she'll "Get over it" and then return to my family feeling proud of myself.
I mean shit, I get it when staff feel can feel overwhelmed by that. I really do - it is overwhelming sometimes. Can it be really hard to do? Absolutely. There have been many occasions when I couldn't help but cry, especially the times I've watched the life leave a little person's eyes right there in front of me, and there are many times when I feel my own pain seeping in and it physically hurts to be there and hear the tortured sobs of someone who is so desperate to see their child breathe one more time.
Does it feel uncomfortable sometimes? Of course. There were even some times in the very beginning, before I'd been able to fully understand the course of my own grief, when I'd see parents and family grieving in very unexpected ways and it felt very jarring. But even then I knew to keep that shit to myself because you have no right to make any assumptions about how another person handles their pain. Some people disassociate, disconnect, get angry, get hysterical, get possessive, get afraid, get weird, or rude, make dark jokes, laugh, cry, or even run away as fast as they can… and every single one of them is grieving the "right" way. It's the way they need to deal with one of the most horrific events that can ever happen to a person, and even if you've gone through a loss yourself you can't really understand how someone else's unique life experience has taught them to deal with that terrifying tidal wave of emotional horror… so you just have to be there with them, and let them know they aren't alone, and that whatever they feel is ok, and their babies are beloved and important. Everything they feel, and everything they do is okay, and is a normal part of grief. It's normal to cry, it's normal to laugh, it's normal to feel nothing at all. It's normal to hurt 10 years later, or feel like you don't hurt enough only two weeks after.
No one gets to judge that inadequate, or excessive, or wrong.
No one.
I'm not writing this for some kind of outpouring of support for being a volunteer or something (though if you feel compelled to donate to the organization and support the parents who need it, [ please do so ] ) - I'm just feeling really angry about this kind of shit and I want to illustrate how I really do get how challenging or emotional it can be, but that it's also really not fucking hard to be a non-douchey person while you're doing it. You don't have to be someone's grief counsellor if that's outside your boundaries, but you do owe it to them to be a decent human being when you walk in the damn room.
I don't want to keep hearing crap and seeing that bullshit and having moms tell me about the horrible and insensitive comments that staff has made to them, trying to laugh it off so they can feel okay about how hurt they are. I don't want nurses to keep coming up to me like I'm totally going to be on their side while they make sick jokes about how gross a baby with a birth abnormality is. I don't want to keep hearing, "Well she was probably tired" as a totally okay reason to tell a mom that her baby's body is "biological waste" and she shouldn't kiss something so unsanitary. I don't even care if it's "technically" true or it's what they believe or what - you don't say that kind of shit to someone who is trying to process the loss of their child. You just don't.
And if this is really and truly the only way you know how to deal with the emotionally difficult parts of your job, please do it somewhere else, where your words and your actions can never ever ever make it back to the parents. I mean jesus christ, this really shouldn't be a thing that needs to be said.
I was still reeling from the 'ew three toes' comment when I got a call the next night for another baby, this time closer to 28 weeks. This time it was a completely different experience, and was nothing short of incredible.
Generally when I get there I have to push a little to be given access to a more appropriate space to do the photos, and sometimes this means waiting by a desk for up to 20-25 minutes before someone is willing to talk to me or give me the new code for the NICU's staff entrance (this is easier and doesn't disturb the other parents who may be up near the front). This time wasn't much different, but when a nurse was called over to give me a hand he immediately introduced himself. That alone made an impact on me, as almost no one bothers to do this. He was very kind and gentle, and asked me if I needed a hand getting in. He offered to help find an isolette for the baby, and then help wheel her into the back room. As we walked, he said, "This must be a hard job to do".
"Sometimes," I answered honestly. "But I want to do it. I lost my son almost 8 years ago now, and these services weren't available to me. I want to give that to other parents."
And he gave me a genuine smile.
When we got into the back room he told me to wait a moment while he found some "Better blankets". He said that the standard hospital fare is rather sterile, and this baby deserves to have a nice blanket to be wrapped in. "I know you want these photos to be as beautiful as possible for her parents, so I'm positive I can find something better". I was deeply touched, and waited patiently in the back. He returned about ten minutes later with a handful of things. The first was a pink blanket with baby patterns on it, though he apologized for it not being very lovely. The second set were tiny little cotton blankets, about 12x6 inches or so.
"We use these to help prop up our smallest babies in the NICU. I thought maybe they might help you get some better poses with such a little baby".
I could have cried. In my 6 years here no one has ever offered me this. I didn't even know these blankets existed. I was standing there in stunned silence for what seemed like a very long time as he passed things to me one by one, explaining each of them as he went and apologizing that they weren't better, or that there wasn't more he could find.
"Do you need anything else?"
"No, this is good. Thank you so much."
"It's no problem. Let me know if you need anything more." And he left.
The little propping blankets were a huge help, and I felt really good about the pictures I got. When I was done I swaddled baby back up and put her back in the bed, then started wheeling the isolette back into the store room.
The same nurse saw me struggling with the door and the cot as I tried to leave through the back door, and immediately jumped in to help. He grabbed the cot and helped me get baby back to where she needed to be. As we walked, I explained to him that no one had ever offered to help make things easier, or get blankets, or anything. Not ever. I said I was truly grateful for his assistance, and his attitude.
He was very modest, and did not accept the compliments; he turned the conversation back to me, told me I was amazing for what I did, and sincerely thanked me for being there. He said he knew how important it was to get the best images possible, "And I imagine you understand that better than anyone."
I asked him what his name was. "Edward," he answered.
"I'm Heather, and it's really wonderful to meet you." I shook his hand, and he gave me a genuine smile before returning to his post.
I don't expect everyone I meet to be an Edward; I know that a person like him is rare to come by, and I am incredibly grateful to have met him right when I needed my faith in humanity restored. I know people have good days and bad days, and this job can be hard. I respect that some people are deeply uncomfortable with death, and may be dealing with their own demons. It would be really wonderful if everyone showed the kind of compassion Edward did, but I'm not asking for miracles. All I want to see when I'm working is staff that's respectful.
They can be quietly respectful, they can be involved helpers who spend a few minutes giving a hug or some reassurance to someone who needs it, they can be someone who simply has a kind smile and gives someone's shoulder a squeeze, they can even just be someone who gives a grieving parent the name of a social worker or contact in the hospital she can talk to if they themselves don't think they can do that… and the thing is, I really don't think that's too much to ask. I don't think it's unreasonable to want those things. I don't think it's unreasonable to ask someone to handle a family with care and gentleness. I don't think it's unreasonable to ask someone to be quiet if they're having trouble dealing with the heaviness of the situation. I don't think it's unreasonable to expect someone to simply not be a giant asshole to people in extremely vulnerable states.
No one needs to be a miracle worker; but you do need to be a human being, and that's not too much to ask.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I have to write a letter to the hospital requesting that Edward receive a promotion and a raise. It's people like him that can make a huge difference in people's lives, simply by showing a little extra compassion to someone who is desperately in need of it… and there needs to be more recognition, and way more appreciation of that.
Before I get into it, it might help to get some context on why I say absolutely nothing to shitty people being shitty: I try really hard to keep a good working relationship with everyone I meet while on "duty", because I'm the lead person here and often the only one doing this job, so it's really fucking important that people and staff feel okay to call me. I try to make sure there's never anything in the way of that, like me being angry or bitchy at them this one time. That may sound extreme, but you never know if a nurse you meet one night is going to be the kind of person that holds totally unnecessary, long grudges. I've known some people like that, and they are absolutely impossible people to be around; so I try to be very careful and very professional even though the majority of people I meet are not like that and are totally decent.
That said, there are some nights where this is a lot harder than I expect it to be because sometimes the staff I meet are really fucking horrible. I have met some seriously rude, insensitive and unkind people while doing this job and it really horrifies me every single time it happens.
The first call of the two was for a very tiny 15-17 week old, and he was beautiful and special. He was not the smallest baby I've ever held, but he was close. Sometimes that makes getting pictures challenging, and so the organization frowns upon answering calls that are for babies born less than 26 weeks. The official policy is not to go at all but the actual contract wording is a more open-ended 'up to the photographer' thing, so I've answered quite a few calls for babes considerably smaller than the cut-off. Though, I attend with a warning that I'll do everything I can to get whatever I can, but can't promise images that look like what's on the site.
Generally the kinds of parents who reach out to this organization are the ones who felt like I did when I lost Jericho: who want to gather up anything and everything they can that has even the most remote connection to this little soul, and keep it close to their hearts forever. It is important to treat that need with the care and respect it deserves, so I try really hard to get the smallest, tiniest details because it's those that will fade the fastest.
As I took pictures I realized he had not had any prints taken, so I put a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door of the room I was in and came up to the desk to ask if they had any ink papers I could use to ensure the parents get something. It's a long shot since the baby is so small, but I figure if I can get even a partial it's better than nothing, right? The nurse told me they "don't do that" anymore for loss parents. Stunned, I asked why not, and she explained, "Well many of those babies aren't even normal. They might even have like only three toes or something, and you don't want a print of something weird like that". She said it with such distain, and yet so casually, as she walked through the NICU full of parents. I just… my brain. It was spinning.
Jericho's condition sometimes affects the way body parts develop due to restricted nutrient flow through the cord, and one of his feet was moderately clubbed and had only 3 "properly" formed toes. We got the same excuse about why no one tried to take a proper print past the first shitty, smudged try. Don't bother, his foot isn't normal anyway.
That's my son. That's my baby. I don't fucking care if two of his toes aren't perfectly normal size or shape - that's my fucking dead child that I will never get to see or hold or kiss again and all I want is just a goddamn print of his feet. No matter what they look like. Because he's my fucking baby.
So shit like that? Hard not to feel furious that someone could make such disgusting comments about a beloved baby that passed away just mere hours before. That baby is cherished and wanted: it does not matter how big they are, or if they had an abnormality, or if they were born still or alive… that parent wants to keep everything they can and the least you can do is offer.
Whenever I try to talk about this kind of encounter with people, or vent online somewhere, I hear the same excuse every single time: "It's a hard job, so you have to disconnect yourself", and I've spent years being sympathetic to that, but at this point I really don't buy it. Don't get me wrong, I understand the job is incredibly hard: the nursing staff often works harder than the doctors do for less recognition and far less pay, they're tired and they do seriously shitty work sometimes. I appreciate and love them for all of that. I supported the nursing strike with all my heart, and I think they deserve more than they get.
But-
- what I do not accept?… is treating grieving parents, and by extension (and sometimes directly) their babies like absolute shit and blaming it on 'being tired'. The problem with that excuse is that your horrible comments to someone on "a bad day" will be with you for 5 minutes, and them for the rest of their lives. How you treat them in those few minutes, and what comes out of your mouth, may impact their ability to reach their grief and put a huge wrench in their emotional and psychological recovery from what was already a horribly traumatic event before you even walked in. This is a core part of your job: dealing with patients and helping them cope. THAT IS LITERALLY WHAT YOU SIGNED UP FOR. It's like getting a job at an information desk and then being angry with people who ask you questions: you fucking knew what this job entailed, why the hell are you punishing people for needing you to do it properly?!
The night Jericho died I had nurses who treated me like I wasn't even there, talked over me about their television shows, stripped me naked in front of my friends and family without permission or warning, and hand-waved the pain I felt from their manhandling; and that all stuck with me in horrible ways. I was already disconnected and terrified by my experience. I felt like I was becoming part of the machines around me and that I would never find my way back to reality. I felt like I'd broken into pieces and could never be put back together. Being treated like a thing instead of a person did nothing but feed into that despair and loneliness.
Similarly, the deeply heartfelt actions and words of the staff who visited me the following days allowed me to really cry for the first time. Through their kindness I was able to touch a small piece of my grief in a safe and supported way… and feel okay about it. Those seemingly small acts of care and validation from strangers gave me the ability to catch my breath, just for a moment, and realize there were ways to try and work through this (eventually leading to me writing it out in paper journals that I would transfer to my blog after my release - something that helped me get through the first months without losing my mind).
Those few moments you spend with those parents matter far more then you can comprehend. If you can't hold it together long enough to treat a grieving parent and their baby with respect, get help from a coworker, or go find a few minutes alone to meditate on centring yourself before you enter the room. You have to - have to - leave your bullshit at the door. Somebody's life may depend on it.
So nowadays when I see staff saying things like "it needs to go back in the freezer" right in front of the parents, or making 'jokes' to me about how their baby is going to be thrown in the trash - THE FUCKING TRASH - it's really hard not to feel personally insulted. And even harder not to scream and shout at them about it.
This is somebody's life falling apart that you are talking about; someone's shattered hopes and dreams and the total loss of a future that you may literally be holding in your hands. Can you at the very least try and hold the smallest amount of respect for that? For like ten fucking seconds? Sometimes I really just want to shove them out the door and scream, "Do that on your own fucking time, you heartless sack of shit".
But I don't.
Instead I smile politely. And I thank them for their time, I find a quiet place to do my job, and I wait until I'm home to vent.
And it's really not hard to show compassion to someone. It isn't. Even if you haven't personally experienced that kind of loss, you can empathize with what people are going through, and you can be gentle and respectful. When I do my job, I talk to the babies - whether I'm alone or with the whole family there - and I tell them that they are important, that they are loved and beautiful. I apologize if I move them into a position that looks uncomfortable. I try to keep their faces clear of blankets or pillows. I hold them carefully and never let their little bodies hang or drop. I brush back little locs of hair off their foreheads. I tell them they are wonderful little people that I am glad to have met. And I mean every single word, every single time. Because they are people, not things, and their bodies deserve to be touched with the utmost care and respect. You wouldn't piss on someone's grave, and neither should you manhandle a baby's body.
I try keep a close eye on the mood of the room and gauge my behaviour based on that. If the parents don't look like they're ok with me talking, I stop and do it in my head. If they look uncomfortable, I cut my visit very short. If they look scared and alone, I let them know they aren't, and I've been there too. Sometimes I stay for an hour and a half cuddling a baby with a mom and dad, just talking it out, if that's what they need. Sometimes I'm in and out in 15 minutes and barely say a word. I've given many families my personal phone number and told them to PLEASE call me at 3am if they feel hopeless. Hell, even Curtis has offered himself to other dads if they need to talk about how another grieving father handled (and in some cases, did not handle) their pain and how it affects them differently. So far no one has awakened me at night, but many have called me during the day or emailed when they needed to talk.
That isn't part of the job and we're not supposed to do that, but I can't imagine walking away from a mama who asks, "Did you lose someone too? How did you get through?" with that terrified look in her eyes. Because I know what that feels like, I know that hopelessness and absolute terror, I know that vulnerability and I know how easily it can be abused and exploited by uncaring staff, family or random assholes on the internet who accuse you of 'milking it' if you dare feel sad longer than the prescribed amount of time they think you should. I can't just turn my back on that and make some shitty comment about how she'll "Get over it" and then return to my family feeling proud of myself.
I mean shit, I get it when staff feel can feel overwhelmed by that. I really do - it is overwhelming sometimes. Can it be really hard to do? Absolutely. There have been many occasions when I couldn't help but cry, especially the times I've watched the life leave a little person's eyes right there in front of me, and there are many times when I feel my own pain seeping in and it physically hurts to be there and hear the tortured sobs of someone who is so desperate to see their child breathe one more time.
Does it feel uncomfortable sometimes? Of course. There were even some times in the very beginning, before I'd been able to fully understand the course of my own grief, when I'd see parents and family grieving in very unexpected ways and it felt very jarring. But even then I knew to keep that shit to myself because you have no right to make any assumptions about how another person handles their pain. Some people disassociate, disconnect, get angry, get hysterical, get possessive, get afraid, get weird, or rude, make dark jokes, laugh, cry, or even run away as fast as they can… and every single one of them is grieving the "right" way. It's the way they need to deal with one of the most horrific events that can ever happen to a person, and even if you've gone through a loss yourself you can't really understand how someone else's unique life experience has taught them to deal with that terrifying tidal wave of emotional horror… so you just have to be there with them, and let them know they aren't alone, and that whatever they feel is ok, and their babies are beloved and important. Everything they feel, and everything they do is okay, and is a normal part of grief. It's normal to cry, it's normal to laugh, it's normal to feel nothing at all. It's normal to hurt 10 years later, or feel like you don't hurt enough only two weeks after.
No one gets to judge that inadequate, or excessive, or wrong.
No one.
I'm not writing this for some kind of outpouring of support for being a volunteer or something (though if you feel compelled to donate to the organization and support the parents who need it, [ please do so ] ) - I'm just feeling really angry about this kind of shit and I want to illustrate how I really do get how challenging or emotional it can be, but that it's also really not fucking hard to be a non-douchey person while you're doing it. You don't have to be someone's grief counsellor if that's outside your boundaries, but you do owe it to them to be a decent human being when you walk in the damn room.
I don't want to keep hearing crap and seeing that bullshit and having moms tell me about the horrible and insensitive comments that staff has made to them, trying to laugh it off so they can feel okay about how hurt they are. I don't want nurses to keep coming up to me like I'm totally going to be on their side while they make sick jokes about how gross a baby with a birth abnormality is. I don't want to keep hearing, "Well she was probably tired" as a totally okay reason to tell a mom that her baby's body is "biological waste" and she shouldn't kiss something so unsanitary. I don't even care if it's "technically" true or it's what they believe or what - you don't say that kind of shit to someone who is trying to process the loss of their child. You just don't.
And if this is really and truly the only way you know how to deal with the emotionally difficult parts of your job, please do it somewhere else, where your words and your actions can never ever ever make it back to the parents. I mean jesus christ, this really shouldn't be a thing that needs to be said.
I was still reeling from the 'ew three toes' comment when I got a call the next night for another baby, this time closer to 28 weeks. This time it was a completely different experience, and was nothing short of incredible.
Generally when I get there I have to push a little to be given access to a more appropriate space to do the photos, and sometimes this means waiting by a desk for up to 20-25 minutes before someone is willing to talk to me or give me the new code for the NICU's staff entrance (this is easier and doesn't disturb the other parents who may be up near the front). This time wasn't much different, but when a nurse was called over to give me a hand he immediately introduced himself. That alone made an impact on me, as almost no one bothers to do this. He was very kind and gentle, and asked me if I needed a hand getting in. He offered to help find an isolette for the baby, and then help wheel her into the back room. As we walked, he said, "This must be a hard job to do".
"Sometimes," I answered honestly. "But I want to do it. I lost my son almost 8 years ago now, and these services weren't available to me. I want to give that to other parents."
And he gave me a genuine smile.
When we got into the back room he told me to wait a moment while he found some "Better blankets". He said that the standard hospital fare is rather sterile, and this baby deserves to have a nice blanket to be wrapped in. "I know you want these photos to be as beautiful as possible for her parents, so I'm positive I can find something better". I was deeply touched, and waited patiently in the back. He returned about ten minutes later with a handful of things. The first was a pink blanket with baby patterns on it, though he apologized for it not being very lovely. The second set were tiny little cotton blankets, about 12x6 inches or so.
"We use these to help prop up our smallest babies in the NICU. I thought maybe they might help you get some better poses with such a little baby".
I could have cried. In my 6 years here no one has ever offered me this. I didn't even know these blankets existed. I was standing there in stunned silence for what seemed like a very long time as he passed things to me one by one, explaining each of them as he went and apologizing that they weren't better, or that there wasn't more he could find.
"Do you need anything else?"
"No, this is good. Thank you so much."
"It's no problem. Let me know if you need anything more." And he left.
The little propping blankets were a huge help, and I felt really good about the pictures I got. When I was done I swaddled baby back up and put her back in the bed, then started wheeling the isolette back into the store room.
The same nurse saw me struggling with the door and the cot as I tried to leave through the back door, and immediately jumped in to help. He grabbed the cot and helped me get baby back to where she needed to be. As we walked, I explained to him that no one had ever offered to help make things easier, or get blankets, or anything. Not ever. I said I was truly grateful for his assistance, and his attitude.
He was very modest, and did not accept the compliments; he turned the conversation back to me, told me I was amazing for what I did, and sincerely thanked me for being there. He said he knew how important it was to get the best images possible, "And I imagine you understand that better than anyone."
I asked him what his name was. "Edward," he answered.
"I'm Heather, and it's really wonderful to meet you." I shook his hand, and he gave me a genuine smile before returning to his post.
I don't expect everyone I meet to be an Edward; I know that a person like him is rare to come by, and I am incredibly grateful to have met him right when I needed my faith in humanity restored. I know people have good days and bad days, and this job can be hard. I respect that some people are deeply uncomfortable with death, and may be dealing with their own demons. It would be really wonderful if everyone showed the kind of compassion Edward did, but I'm not asking for miracles. All I want to see when I'm working is staff that's respectful.
They can be quietly respectful, they can be involved helpers who spend a few minutes giving a hug or some reassurance to someone who needs it, they can be someone who simply has a kind smile and gives someone's shoulder a squeeze, they can even just be someone who gives a grieving parent the name of a social worker or contact in the hospital she can talk to if they themselves don't think they can do that… and the thing is, I really don't think that's too much to ask. I don't think it's unreasonable to want those things. I don't think it's unreasonable to ask someone to handle a family with care and gentleness. I don't think it's unreasonable to ask someone to be quiet if they're having trouble dealing with the heaviness of the situation. I don't think it's unreasonable to expect someone to simply not be a giant asshole to people in extremely vulnerable states.
No one needs to be a miracle worker; but you do need to be a human being, and that's not too much to ask.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I have to write a letter to the hospital requesting that Edward receive a promotion and a raise. It's people like him that can make a huge difference in people's lives, simply by showing a little extra compassion to someone who is desperately in need of it… and there needs to be more recognition, and way more appreciation of that.